


Winter

by 8bite_me3



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - Russian 21st c.
Genre: Dmitry Medvedev - Freeform, M/M, RPF, RPS - Freeform, Russia, Vladimir Putin - Freeform, dam, gps, putvedev, vvp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:39:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8bite_me3/pseuds/8bite_me3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Putin and Medvedev take a break before the start of election season. Takes place December 2007.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter

They came up here for a final meeting before election season kicked off. It was a chance to review the plans away from the prying eyes of the press. It was just him and Dima (and his security personal of course).

This election was going to be tough. Obviously they were going to win but they still had to convince enough people to vote. It was important they were popular with the voters. It’s easier to rig an election that’s already in your favor than one that is not. Ah, but enough of these thoughts! He had been thinking about the presidential race too much lately. There was still plenty of time for such musings. Right now it was time to think about dinner.

Putin turned to the mirror in his hotel room and straightened his sweater. He looked like an old man. It seemed that every day he looked just a little bit older than the day before. He was only 55, a relatively young age in politics, and had no time to deal with aging.

But now he had Dima. He was young, only 42, and had this great boyish charm. He had this contagious smile that could brighten up any room. Being around Dima made Putin feel young again. A young, vibrant leader was what the people wanted. Or at least that’s what the media told the Russian people that was what they wanted. Youth was what his PR campaign sold to the Russian people when he ran for the first time. And the people ate it up. They were tired of the old, drunken Yeltsin. And now he, Vladimir Putin, was going to sell his successor just as he was sold all those years ago. Life could be bittersweet sometimes.

Putin glanced at the clock before leaving his room. This thoughtful tangent had made him late. Not that it mattered much. Everyone expected him to be late. And Dima didn’t really mind. He was used to it. And it wasn’t like they had a set schedule. This was a working “vacation” after all.

They were staying at a small exclusive hotel tucked away in the Ural mountains in the Komi Republic. He had booked the entire resort for a week. No tourists. No nosey Russians. No annoying employees. They were completely isolated from everyone.

It was nice to finally spend some time together, even if it was for work. Not that every second of every day was devoted to work. They often spent a few hours each morning on the slopes. Then there were the nights…

And Putin still had a country to run. He still kept his daily meetings with his staff via video conference. Being the president of Russia was a 24/7 job. But he could’ve done without today’s conference. It consisted mostly of listening to various governors whine about the budget. All they ever did was complain.

At least he had a nice dinner to look forward to. The food here was delicious. It was getting hard to stop himself from overeating (and even harder to stop Dima who had finally gotten in shape).

Putin entered the empty dining room. Had the hotel been open to the public it would’ve been packed with guests eating and chatting merrily about the days adventures. But now only a single table in the center of the room was set. It was almost romantic.

“Would you like us to begin serving or would you prefer to wait for Mr. Medvedev?”

Putin blinked.

What did he mean by “wait for”? No one keeps Putin waiting, especially not Dima. Putin is the one to keep people waiting and that’s how he likes to keep it.

He looked at the table again and frowned. Sure enough both chairs were empty. “Please hold off on the food.”

He walked over to the table and sat down. He was practically fuming. Putin couldn’t even label what he was feeling as he gazed across the table at the empty chair. Insulted? Offended? Stood up? There better be a good reason for this.

Five minutes passed…

Ten…

Twenty…

Finally after a half hour of waiting Putin stalked out of the dining room in anger. No hotel employee dared approach him as he made his way to Dima’s room.

He knocked loudly. “Dmitry Anatolyevich!”

No response.

He knocked even harder.

Nothing.

So he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the spare card to Dima’s room. He had taken it for their *ahem* night meetings.

 He was boiling with anger at this point, ready to give him a stern lecture on naps and tardiness. But when he flung open the door and looked inside there was no Dima. He wasn’t asleep on the bed. He wasn’t sitting at the desk surfing the internet. He wasn’t hanging out on the balcony taking pictures of the surrounding mountains. He wasn’t in the bathroom tying his god forsaken double Windsor knots.

Where was Dima?

Putin picked up the phone and called his security. “Have you seen Dmitry Anatolyevich?”

“No…” He hung up before the officer could explain any further.

He glanced at the clock. If he included how late he himself was for dinner it put Dima at almost an hour late. This was not like him at all. He rushed off to the hotel lobby shocking the poor woman working the front desk.

“I’m looking for Dmitry Anatolyevich. When was the last time you or another staff member saw him?”

“Let me call the desk attendant from the previous shift.” She left the counter and walked into a back room.

He was starting to get seriously concerned.

After about five minutes passed the lady came back.

“Around two o’clock Mr. Medvedev stopped by the desk and inquired about other activities besides skiing that we offer. He referred Mr. Medvedev to our Park Ranger. I phoned him to confirm if Mr. Medvedev did stop by. He did. Our staff member suggested one of the scenic walking trails.”

Vladimir took a controlled breath.

Dima was far from athletic. He had no sense of direction. In all probability he was lost somewhere in the forest. This was a complete disaster.

He rushed back to his room and quickly dressed himself in his skiing clothes. Gloves in hand he picked up the phone, “Viktor Vasilyevich.”

There was a long pause before the man at the end of the line registered Putin’s voice. “Vladimir Vladimirovich? What do you need?”

“I have reason to believe Dmitry Anatolyevich got lost in the woods by the hiking trails. Please send everyone out.”

“Right away, Vladimir Vladimirovich.”

* * *

Vladimir stood at the entrance to a scenic walking path. The resort offered more than a dozen trails but he knew Dima took this one. He liked to take pictures and this one had the word “scenic” in the trail name. It hadn’t snowed in a while. The path was quite trampled on so there was no way to distinguish Dima’s footprints. But somehow he just knew Dima took this path. So he turned on his flashlight and started walking.

The path was easy, well defined and even. Parts of it felt like under all the snow it may have been paved with stone. In other words this trail was no problem, even for someone as outdoorsman challenged as Dima. Putin began to feel confident that he’d find Dima in no time.

And then he came to a fork in the path.

A post with a wooden sign divided the trail. It was almost completely covered in snow. Putin brushed the snow off and shined his flashlight on the words. It had two arrows: one pointing to the right labeled ‘Scenic Trail’ and one pointing to the left labeled ‘Hunting Path.’

Putin closed his eyes as he felt his stomach clench. Dima took the hunting path. He knew it. The scenic trail sorta veers off to the right. If Dima wasn’t paying attention, which he never did, and ignored the practically invisible sign he would’ve just continued forward, right down the hunting path.

Putin pointed his flashlight at the ground to the left of the sign. Sure enough there was a solitary trail of footprints.

Just great. Instead of staying on the scenic trail Dima turned down the path to the hunting grounds. Knowing his luck he probably got shot. Well at least Dick Cheney doesn’t travel to Russia all that much.

On that grim note Putin pointed his flashlight in the direction of Dima’s tracks and followed.

After about a half hour Putin mused that he had only gone barely half a mile. From the prints it seemed like Dima was all over the place. If he didn’t know better he would’ve thought Dima was drunk. The footprints lead in a general direction but they wove all over. Sometimes they veered right for a few meters or sometimes they took an abrupt left before turning around again. He was probably chasing after a deer or some other wild life with his camera.

Soon the forest started to think out. Walking became less treacherous as there were less roots to dodge and rocks to step over. He was sure he left the hunting path long ago. An exclusive resort such as this would not provide such a challenging trail for hunting. But at least there was snow on the ground, the footprints would help him find his way back. And now that there were fewer trees the snow and the tracks were more apparent. Along with the moonlight the snow made it almost bright enough so that Putin didn’t need the aid of a flashlight.  

And suddenly the trees abruptly ended. He found himself by a frozen lake. With the moonlight just so it look quite picturesque.

He stopped and looked up at the sky. The forest back there really masked how late it was. The moon hung high up in the sky. It was so very big and bright. Had he not been in a rush… Wait! Dima! What was he doing!? The tracks! He looked around frantically. Did he lose the trail? Was he lost!?

But before he could completely descend into panic he spied a black shape in the distance. That had to be Dima. He ran towards it.

As he got closer the shape came into focus. It appeared to be a person sitting on a rock. And that person was a male wearing a red hat. Yes, it was Dima!

A sense of relief washed over him. He stopped a few feet behind rock and just stood there taking it all in. Dima was not lost. Dima was safe and sound. This whole time he had been sitting on a rock, staring up at the sky oblivious to the world.

Vladimir smiled. “Dima, what the hell do you think you’re doing wandering the grounds all alone?”

“Volodya!?” Dima snapped out of his apparent trance. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you! We’ve all been looking for you?”

“Who has been looking? For me! Why?” Dima looked around expecting to see an entire search party. He only saw Putin.

“You’ve been gone for hours.” He hissed in annoyance. Was he really this thick?

“Vova what are you talking about? When I got to the lake it was only four o’clock.” He pulled up the cuff of his jacket and glanced at his watch. “It’s ten p.m.!!!! How!?”

Putin rolled his eyes. “What were you even doing out here?”

“Oh, I just wanted to enjoy the scenery and take some pictures.” He gestured to the camera hanging around his neck. He looked back up to the sky. “It’s so beautiful out here.”

Putin sat down next to him. Dima was right, the forest, the lake, the sky, everything really, it was all just so very pretty. Just a few moments ago even he got distracted by the beauty.

He looked over at Dima. His nose was bright red from the cold. It matched his hat. Putin couldn’t help but grin. He could never be upset with Dima. No matter what he always made him smile. “Come, Dima. It’s time to head back to the hotel.”

“Just sit with me for a few more minutes. I want you to see the lights.” He grabbed Putin’s arm, stopping him from getting up.

“Lights? What lights?”

“The Northern Lights of course. That’s what drew me to the lake. Well after the elk ran off, that is. I saw the lights twinkling through the trees. They led me here.”

“Dima, we’re not far north enough to see the Northern Lights.”

“Well we have to be. See, I took pictures.” Dima handed Putin his camera. Lit up on the screen was an image of the sky streaked with yellow and orange.

“That’s not the Northern Lights, Dima. That’s a combination of gas flares and light pollution from the oil town thirty minutes from here.”

“That’s pollution? I’ve been taking pictures of pollution?”

“Pretty much.”

“Ohhhh.” Dima frowned. He looked sad. “I’ve got almost a hundred shots. Now I gotta delete them all.”

“You can delete them back at the hotel.” Putin pulled Dima off the rock before he had the chance to start playing with his camera. “It’s freezing out and we still haven’t had dinner.”

**Author's Note:**

> I really didn’t want to post this but I didn’t know what else to do. It took me over a month to write what I’ve got so far but I’m still not satisfied with it. I ended up cutting out about two pages worth of Putin musings because it started going in a direction I had not intended to go (and it was getting a bit OOC). I also cut out the smut scene. I might post it later.
> 
> I’m not a scholar of Russian culture so I’m sure I made many mistakes. I’m an American so I apologize in advance for everything that I Americanized. I honestly do not mean to be ignorant.


End file.
